Sweeney Todd's Torture Program
by unamuerte
Summary: The Sequel to Signor Pirelli's Dating Game! Read that one first if you're confused, but it's not hard to follow! Feel free to add your own suggestions, advice, ideas. By the way, it does say TORTURE. So if you're squeamish, go away please.
1. Chapter 1

**Sweeney Todd's Torture Program**

"Mr T, are you _sure _they're goin' to like this?"

"Don't tell me you're having _second thoughts_, Mrs Lovett?"

Sweeney Todd was sitting backstage on a little stool, polishing his razors.

Mrs Lovett was busy fixing her hair with numerous cans of mousse, gel, and hairspray.

"No, course not love," she said quickly, giving her giant termite mound hair another firm pat. "I'm just a bit nervous….wot's all."

She smiled broadly, gave a little turn in her dress. It was white satin underneath, and the folds and sleeves and corset were draped over in black, snake-like cords.

Just like rivers of blood, Sweeney thought fondly, and grinned back at Mrs Lovett.

"I must say Mrs Lovett, I approve of the dress."

"But wot if….they hate us?" She bit her lip, and immediately went to the edge of the stool.

Mrs Lovett rested her hand across the trouser of his thigh, and looked up at him.

"We worked so 'ard ta get all the weapons _just so_….wot if they –"

"Then we'll slit their throats," Sweeney said jovially, giving his razors another firm rub.

He looked up at her, and they both smiled.

It was a new thing for Sweeney, this _smiling_ business. But Mrs Lovett, strangely, had brought new life into him.

They'd spent every day for the past three weeks poring over old torture books, hunting for just the right weapons in dusty antique shops…..carefully selecting their chosen victims for the show.

He hadn't felt this _alive_ since….Sweeney didn't know when. Of course, that didn't mean they were _dating. _He'd heard enough of that rubbish from Signor Pirelli's Dating Show.

Suddenly it hit him. "Mrs Lovett…" he began slowly, staring at her long enough to make Mrs Lovett's stomach tremble and her whole body seize up.

"Yes?" she almost squeaked, smoothing her hair and attempting to look like a lady.

"Am I in a good mood?"

Mrs Lovett burst out laughing, but stopped pretty quickly. He was serious. "Yes love," she spoke softly, leaning her head against his leg so he wouldn't see her burning face.

Well, that, and she liked to lean against Sweeney's leg. "This is wot I call a good mood."

Sweeney leapt off the stool, kicking it into the corner.

At first Mrs Lovett thought he was angry, but no –

"I'm in a good mood, Mrs Lovett," he said in a rush, "and I want to share it with the world."

He grinned, and Mrs Lovett couldn't think of a handsomer man on the planet. _Well_, perhaps that charmin' doctor who'd stopped her on the street near Whitechapel and asked her if she'd like some grapes…he was pretty good looking, but then he didn't have a white streak in his hair and eyes that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

"Well," Sweeney said impatiently, holding out his arm for her to take. "Will you help me share it?"

_I'd have to be bloomin' daft not to,_ Mrs Lovett thought. "Of course, Mr T."

"Right," said Sweeney, stepping on stage to host the brand new TV program. "Let the games begin."

"Tis a right shame Pirelli's show wos such a fizza after we wos on. Feel a tad sorry for Pirelli. They say he's a druggie over on Fleet Street at present, snortin' his nose off, I shouldn't wonder."

Sweeney Todd grunted. "It's _Sweeney Todd's Torture Program_ from now on, Mrs Lovett, and they _will_ remember it. I will _have_ my revenge."

He took his razors out, and held them up under the shining spotlight.

"That's all very well," Mrs Lovett said, clutching his free arm and turning to the studio audience, "but wot we gonna do for our first show?"

"Torture someone, presumably," said Sweeney, dead pan.

"Yes I know love, but _who?_ _Who_ will be our first victim?"

*** * ***

**Yes indeed. WHO? Suggestions? Got someone you're DYING to have killed off? It can be from other Johnny Depp/Helena movie's too, e.g. Sleepy Hollow, Corpse Bridge, whatever floats your boat. Whatever gets the most response in reviews I'll tally up and that'll be Sweeney's first victim!**


	2. Cat meat and Apple sauce

**A/N: I know, I'm a bad, bad author. But this is lots of fun I promise so hopefully it'll make up for my lateness =D THANKS FOR ALL THE CRAZY BRILLIANT INSANE SUGGESTIONS!!**

**Oh, for those Turpin fans out there - don't worry. A lot more people will be die before he does. He'll live to gander another day!**

**~Cat meat and Apple sauce~**

"We're _late, _Mrs Lovett," Sweeney scowled, giving his razors a final sharp polish.

"Naughty me, I know, but a woman can't help 'er havin' 'air emergencies!"

"I happen to think torture is a far more important date than your _hair, _my dear."

"Don't get ya trousas in a twist, Mr T. Just run the openin' credits, we'll 'ave time."

"Very well," Sweeney sighed, and cued the opening credits to _Sweeney Todd's Torture Program:_

"_If ever there lived a rotten two,_

_It's Sweeney Todd and his baker-beau,_

_Swinging his razors wide and high,_

_Skinning her cats and baking her pies,_

_No other couple does it half as well,_

_As the Demon Barber and his woman Nell,_

_So if you're thirsting for some good old-fashioned gore_

_Come along and see what Sweeney's show has in store!"_

On cue, the audience rose up from their seats like waves in the sea.

"SWEENETT! SWEENETT!"

"Introducing," came the Voice Over from behind the stage, "the devilish Mr Sweeney Todd, and his charmingly sadistic sidekick, Mrs Eleanor Lovett!"

Two figures walked on stage.

"CUE MUSIC," The sound crew screeched from behind the scenes, and suddenly the sound of screeching violins infiltrated the stage.

It was music, indeed. Music to Sweeney's ears. "Dance, Mrs Lovett?"

He extended his arm, and she took it. They waltzed about the stage, one bearing his razors, the other her rolling pin. They moved easily together, as if they had danced for years.

When the music cut, Sweeney bowed, Mrs Lovett curtsied, and they broke slightly from each other.

"Kiss her already, you bleedin' fool!" Someone shrieked from the audience.

Mrs Lovett looked up hopefully. Someone 'as the right idea! she thought. Should name it Sweeney Todd's Kissing Show, we should. When you think on it, there's as many ways to kiss as kill…

"Stop day-dreaming Mrs Lovett," Sweeney snapped. He shot his razor hand up in the air, and the audience went dead.

"It is time," Sweeney roared, sounding a touch like a pirate drunk on rum, "for the first victim!"

Again, the audience erupted into screams. "Spill his guts!" a woman shrieked, tossing a string of left-over entrails on the stage.

"Eye-balls first," another shrieked.

"QUIET!" Sweeney pointed his razors at the audience.

Quite a few of the women in the audience fainted.

"Raise the curtain, Mrs Lovett!"

"With pleasure, Mr T!"

Mrs Lovett raised the curtain, as strong as any sailor.

There, behind the curtain, was the world's favourite villain, strung up like a pig on a spit.

"You will be _hung_ for this," the victim insisted. "The people of London will not stand to see me thus degraded!"

"Apparently the people of London think otherwise," said Sweeney joyfully, polishing his razors right in front of the terrified man.

Judge Turpin, the Eminent Arm of the Law, was strung up quite elegantly in Sweeney Todd's old barber chair. His hands were bound, and his legs were tied. He hadn't shaved in a week, and he evidently hadn't bathed either, as a faded river of dried piss was stained against his tan trouser pants.

"Apple sauce!" Mrs Lovett bellowed, and one of the crew members handed her a jar of apple sauce.

"Cat meat," Sweeney called deliciously.

The cat meat was passed, and Mrs Lovett took both the apple sauce and the stone bowl of cat meat and leant over the Judge in her none-too-seductive snake-cord dress. "Open wide, my lord."

"I will have no part in this depravity!" he bellowed.

Mrs Lovett snorted. "Ha ha! Did you 'ear that love! Says he won't have a part in depravity! Wot be a touch ironic, sir, since depravity's your middle name an' all!"

The demon barber smiled. "I heard, Mrs Lovett, I heard."

"You will pay, villains. Mark my words, you _will_ pay."

"Ah, sir," the baker sighed, now a touch serious. "That's wot they all say. But they all cave, in the end."

"Fact of the matter is, _my lord," _spat Sweeney sarcastically, "you have no choice in the matter."

"Well, actually love," Mrs Lovett said seductively, breathing against the Judge's ear, "he 'as."

"I do?" the Judge narrowed his eyes, trying to appear as if Mrs Lovett's ministrations had no appeal for him whatsoever.

"'Course you do," she chortled, smoothing her hands across the shoulders of his jacket-suit. "You can do wot Mr T says, or,"

"- or it'll be a _shave_ for you," Sweeney finished madly, holding his razors aloft in the air.

"Open wide, sir," said Sweenet Todd, dangling a thick wooden soup spoon in front of the victim.

Mrs Lovett now had her arms dangling around Turpin's neck. She delivered a slow, mocking kiss against his bristly cheek. "Mmm wot a delightful idea, my love."

"Well, my pet, the torture program was _your_ idea."

She abandoned the Judge momentarily, and skipped over to Sweeney, drawing his arm around her waist. "Love I'm so 'appy. Never thought I could be. Wot you thinkin'?"

"I'm thinking, Mrs Lovett, that there is too much talking, and not enough torturing."

"Right you are love," she beamed. Mrs Lovett offered up her mouth to Sweeney. He delivered a quick peck on her lips, and together they walked, arm in arm toward their first victim.

Sweeney had the protesting Judge's jaw attached to a lovely medieval clamp, while Mrs Lovett administered the apple sauce and cat meat.

"I feel like the Queen o' Torture!" Mrs Lovett sang.

"Well my dear," said Sweeney with a wry little grin and a raise of the eyebrow. "If you are the Queen, I suppose I am crowned the King."

"Right you is love," Mrs Lovett agreed.

The Judge was staring at her, his stomach groaning from cat-meat and apple sauce. He spewed into the clamp. He thought furiously: How could I have considered having _relations_ with that monster of a woman!

"Don't fret, sir. We 'ave much more goodies in store. We is just warmin' up." One small finger trailed along his cat-meat smeared jaw. Mrs Lovett blew Turpin a kiss.

"Join us next episode," Sweeney growled, taking Mrs Lovett's arm and leading her down through the audience.

Poor Judge Turpin was completely defenceless.

*** * ***

**Stay Tuned For the Next Episode of **_**Sweeney Todd's Torture Program!**_

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**Where is the fun, my pet, if I cannot mock you from time to time?**

**Oh garn then. Mock away love. =)**


	3. A Little Wizard

**A/N: FINALLY, this is the first weekend I haven't homework. I LOVE All your ideas and I'm slowing going to work through them all one by one. No one in this fic is sacred, so if you don't want your favourite characters tortured...too bad mwahahah. I just picked at random, and I chose RavenousRIOT's request: "Sweeney should torture professor Snape."**

"!Ay bella, ay chica, ay mi Corazon daaaaame tu amor!"

"Dame dame amorrrrrrrrrrr!" Mrs Lovett belted off-key, flicking her feather-duster in the air with more-than-usual gutso. She was stacking bottles on the kitchen bench, and beside the bottles was a bright-red radio picked up second-hand from a garage sale. Mr T said it reminded him of blood. "One green bottle, two more green bottles…there! Wot a masterpiece!"

"_You're listening to Desperate Melodies FM and that was Signor Pirelli with his latest hit "Dame Chica Bella Your Box of Powder Snuff." It seems the world can't get enough of Pirelli lately, despite his very public downfall from what used to be everyone's favourite dating game Signor Pirell's Dating Game, now known as Sweeney Todd's Torture Program. Am I the only one who's noticed that Mrs Lovett? Quite a dish, that one. Pity she can't act. Actually there's been a lot of rumours lately, let's put it to our listeners. Who thinks Mrs Lovett got her position by sleeping with Sweeney Todd? We're taking callers….righhht now – "_

"Oh shut up you!" the baker snapped, switching off the radio. She stood back to admire her handy-work instead. It had taken half-an-hour of hard work, arranging and re-arranging the delicate subtleties of the glass, but at last she'd done. She'd built a pyramid out of Mr Todd's empty green gin bottles. Quite pretty too, Mr Lovett thought, the way they shone in the light. Course, not nearly as pretty Mr T's eyes…

"Mrs Lovett." Sweeney was behind her, shredding one of his old leather jackets with one of his razors.

She jumped a mile. No matter how long they'd been living together (blimey, two weeks and counting!) – Mrs Lovett could never _quite_ get the hang of Mr Todd sneaking up behind her.

"Just doin' a bit of home-makin', Mr T," Mrs Lovett said sheepishly, hoping he hadn't heard her singing along with the radio.

"Is that so?" Sweeney watched her discernibly. "For a moment there I thought you were auditioning for a musical."

"Oooh Mr Todd! Ooh hoo hoo! That's a good one! Me? In a musical! Oooh you's a funny one!" Mrs Lovett tossed the feather duster aside, and smoothed down her dress. If only he knew.

"Who hosts that crap?" Sweeney eyed the radio meaningfully.

Mrs Lovett was hoping he'd notice the bottles. "Hmmm? No idea dearie."

"Find out. Whoever it is, we'll cut him up into little pieces. And then, when we're done, we'll dissect him and bottle his organs in those empty gin bottles."

Mrs Lovett beamed. He _had_ noticed! "Ooh splendid idea my love. Just like them Egyptians wif their mummies."

The barber hung his jacket on the chair. He didn't really care about Mrs Lovett's stupid bottle-pyramid. He was more interested in the way her dress hung oddly about her shoulders, and fell into a sort of black-and-white striped mushroom down to her ankles. She'd made it herself, and Sweeney felt it was the sort of thing a witch might wear. It suited her. "We've got ten minutes to get to the show," he cautioned.

It had only been a handful of days and nights, really. But Sweeney couldn't seem to remember a time when he hadn't lived with Mrs Lovett. She was the only one he knew who knew how to cook haggis just the way he liked it, with all the blood dripping onto the sides of the plate. She let him do his pacing in the kitchen when he got restless, and they'd been reading Macbeth every night for inspiration for the show. "Lady Macbeth is my favourite character, Mr T, did you know?" Mrs Lovett would tell him repeatedly at half past ten every evening after they'd come home late from interviews and collapsed in their armchairs in the living room. "Except when she goes crazy, of course," the baker had been quick to add.

"Mr T," she said nervously now, turning to the sink to primp her hair and check her teeth with a spoon, "wot you lookin' at?"

He put his razors down on the kitchen bench beside the bottles, causing the tower to wobble precariously. Mrs Lovett didn't seem to be altogether worried. She had her hands pressed against the bench, and wasn't looking _quite_ so nervous anymore. She had an idea of what Sweeney was thinking.

"Mr T," she suddenly, when he was close enough to wrap his arms around her. "I dun think it's such a good idea, woteva you is thinkin'." She turned her back to him so he couldn't see, and quickly held up the spoon. It wasn't a pretty sight, Mrs Lovett's teeth. _Bleedin' hell –_ where'd all them flecks of food come from, she thought.

"Don't be _shy, _my dear," Sweeney teased, spinning her round. He'd never known Mrs Lovett to be coy. He leant his head close, so that it rested against her forehead. He watched her breath shorten, and her eyes flutter.

"I didn't brush me teeth," Mrs Lovett blurted, her eyes snapping open as if he'd woken her from hypnosis.

Sweeney grinned, displaying his less-than-inviting gums. "I _never _brush Mrs Lovett. Or floss."

She kept her head pressed against his forehead, and it seemed supremely right that they stare straight at each other, as if they were staring into the end of the universe. She could see everything there, in Mr Todd's eyes, bottomless and heavy though they were. It was as if he had every star in the sky locked up there inside, and it was her job to prise them out of him, painstakingly one by one…

Who knew what might have happened, if some rude person hadn't suddenly knocked on the door?

"Wot is it?" they roared.

"It's the marvellous-boy-wizard," came the dry, languorous voice.

Eventually, Sweeney answered the door. Mrs Lovett pushed in front of him, being a good head shorter. "We don't do charities, salesmen, bible-bashers, girl and/or boy scouts –"

"Neither do I," said the tall, hook-nosed man framed by black, shoulder-length hair. He was quite greasy-looking, and the black robes didn't help much either. "I am here with a purpose."

"And we don't do no orgies, neither," Mrs Lovett piped up, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," said the man suddenly, as if he had just noticed her standing in the doorway. "I think it is ingenious what you are doing….masking as a muggle to lull them into a false sense of security…" He bowed low.

Mrs Lovett looked back at Sweeney. "Wot's 'e on about then?"

Sweeney shrugged. Whoever this man was, he was clearly deranged. "You'd better not be gandering," he warned. "My wife was once gandered at, and it did not end well for either of us."

"I assure you sir, I have no intention of uncovering you wizardry to the idiots who watch your show. I have come to present you with a proposition."

"Oh well that's alright then," said Mrs Lovett relieved. "Wot proposition you 'ave in mind?"

"_That one_," the hook-nosed man said, moving away from the door. There, tied up and gagged in the back of a coach, was a miserable looking teenage-boy with a bad-hair cut and round glasses.

"Uhhh we don't do child-kidnapping," Mrs Lovett said quickly, slipping an arm through Sweeney's protectively.

"That is no child," the man snapped, his eyes darting back to the coach. "That is Harry _Potter,"_ he spat, "and I want him _dead."_

"You mean you want us to torture him," Mrs Lovett said, nonplussed.

"No, Mrs Lovett," Sweeney corrected, smiling with blank eyes. "He wants him dead."

"Did you hear that _Potter_," the man called over his shoulder. "Five hundred _thousand _points from Gryffindor!"

*** * ***

**The Latest in Advertisements, brought to you by the Asylum for Insane Muffins Publications, i.e. Ravencaller's ego and her muffin-obsessed friend:**

**How to Survive Bedlam in 7 Easy Steps, by Lucy Barker **

**1. Chew off your hair. That way there's less for Mr Fogg to chop off, and you get out quicker. Possibly.**

**2. Convince the other women in your cell you're all fairies trapped in a dungeon, and dance around in a fairy ring. Tends to pass the time.**

**3. Never, ever eat the gruel. It's Mr Fogg's way of trying to spike your food so the miser can have his way with you. **

**4. Peel off your fingernails. It works when the others don't stop crying all night long. Give them something to _really_ snivel about.**

**5. Learn to sleep standing up, and often. That way you can pretend the only time you're dreaming is when you're awake.**

**6. Say Benjamin Barker is Barking Mad over and over a hundred and two times and it might come true and he'll be put in the same cell as you and you'll live madly ever after together.**

**7. When Judge Turpin or Beadle Bamford come to visit, make sure you have some pins saved from your sewing cushion. Poke them in the eyes if they get too near.**


	4. JayWalking Muggles

**A/N: I know, late again! You'll have to bear with me for three more weeks until I graduate. Ick, why can't there be a Degree in Sweeney Todd? God I would be first in line to sign up for that university. =D**

**~Jay-Walking Muggles~**

"Listen to me love," said Mrs Lovett, pushing the screen door in front of the stranger's face, "you look capable enough ter be doin' the killin' yerself. Wot you need us for?"

"Indeed," said Sweeney, raising his hackles.

"Publicity," said the man nonchalantly, inspecting his nails. Really, he was casting furtive glances back at the gagged teenager, as if he were unable to believe he was really there.

"Oh?" Mrs Lovett re-opened the door.

"I and a small group of…_friends," _the hook-nosed man said meaningfully, "have been searching for that treacherous child for more than fifteen years. We wish to celebrate his capture in a way that the Dark Lo – _our leader, _sees fit."

"You mean by publicly humiliatin' the boy on national tele?" Mrs Lovett beamed. It sounded right up their alley. She turned to Sweeney. "Please love? The genl'emun clearly loves our show."

Sweeney was frowning and twisting his razors, which could only mean he was seriously considering the proposition. "Prudence, my dear," he said at last, holding her at arm's length from the door. "We have no idea who he is."

The robed man sighed. "Severus Snape," he confessed, pulling out a scroll that listed his credentials.

"Oooh you've done quite a bit of actin' sir," Mrs Lovett squealed.

"Only in my spare time," Snape winked surreptitiously.

Sweeney rolled his eyes. She was always going batty when one of her favourite 'stars' came on TV, especially those two actors with the funny surnames and bohemian haircuts were interviewed. Deep, Dope, Dape…? No that wasn't it…and the other one with the dark glasses….Beardon, Button, Burkin, Barton? He gave up. Sweeney slammed his razor into the woodwork.

"Love?" Mrs Lovett and the stranger were staring at him. "Wot's wrong dear?" she frowned, probably wondering if he was losing it.

"Memory loss," Sweeney muttered, finally deciding to open the door. "Come in then, Mr Snape."

The baker gasped. "Could I…could I trouble you for yer autograph sir?"

*** * ***

"I'm Mrs Lovett," said Mrs Lovett warmly over several cups of tea. "And this is Mr Todd," she repeated, getting up to refill the gentleman's tea cup with another tot of gin.

"Yes, my pet, we've established that," said Sweeney grumpily. "When can we get to torturing the brat?"

"Patience, love, patience. I've called management an' they said they can delay the show for 'alf an' hour."

Mrs Lovett sighed. It was only recently that she realised Sweeney had a slight addiction….very well, an _obsession_. He couldn't leave off torturing even one day…sometimes two….frequently three times a day. Nellie couldn't understand it. It was as if he wasn't happy unless he was torturing, or planning to torture someone, or thinking about torturing in general….

"I don't _want_ anymore delays, _my pet."_ A little green vain popped up in the corner of Sweeney's head.

The baker patted his trouser leg affectionately and ran a hand through his silver streak. "Hush love." Down her corset, she'd stuffed a special question sheet she'd been carrying round with her all week. She'd been saving it for Mr T, only she didn't know how to break it to him. He needed help, an' if he wouldn't listen to her, perhaps _TA_ would lend a listening ear and a friendly hand.

She turned to the stranger. "Another cup of tea, sir?"

"No," scowled Snape.

They were already late for Sweeney's show, but Mrs Lovett insisted on them always being alert and steady. Which meant downing five cups of gin-an'-tea to calm her nerves.

"Mrs Lovett," Sweeney said frostily from his flowery arm-chair (Mrs Lovett's décor, not his), "get back here. I need some more tea."

"I don't know wot you're on about," Mrs Lovett said breezily, taking a peep in his tea-cup. "It's full as a baby's bladder."

"_No, _it isn't," the barber hissed, pouring it onto the floor. "Now, _fetch me another."_

Couldn't she see she was embarrassing him, with all her fussing and smothering and mothering? He was the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, after all. Didn't she know he had a reputation to maintain?

Mrs Lovett apparently didn't think so. She landed a cherubim kiss on his forehead, brushed the crumbs off his vest, and reached over to pick up the tea-cup. "Now love, you is awfully cranky today. You sure you've 'ad your mornin' nap?"

Without another word, Sweeney got up from the frilly chair, upended the table and all the lovely cakes and glasses, and stormed out the door.

Mrs Lovett turned to the stranger. "Wot's got his goat then?"

But the stranger was about as interested in relationships as Sweeney Todd.

He left the tea-cup unattended, stood, clasped her arm and brought her close to his ear. "This charade must _stop, _Bella. The Dark Lord is waiting, _as we speak, _for further developments."

**Twenty minutes later….**

The stranger had been stuffed beside the boy-wizard in the backseat. She and Sweeney had managed to lift him up and carry them between them into the coach.

Along the way, an old, gnarly stick had fallen out of the man's pocket, and Mrs Lovett had accidently trod on it, breaking it clean in two.

"Man must be balmier than we thought," Mrs Lovett mused, "carryin' around dry twigs in his pockets."

Without warning, Snape hiccupped. "Bella you twisted minx," he half-snarled, half-gurgled in semi-consciousness. "What sort of insidioussss…_hic…._muggle…._hic….._drink did you poison me with?"

"Nothin'," Mrs Lovett said coquettishly, strapping herself into the driver's seat of the coach next to Sweeney. "Only 'alf a bottle of gin," she muttered slyly. 'Twasn't as if it was hard. The man could barely stomach his drink. Half a bottle of gin, and Mrs Lovett had been wanting to turn handstands in Mrs Mooney's grimy apartment…

"Drive, Mrs Lovett," the barber ordered ominously.

Mrs Lovett did as she was bidden, and gave the horses a firm shake of the reigns.

They were off.

She looked over at Sweeney looking thunderous in the passenger seat of the coach. Probably imaginin' all the ways he could torture that devilishly handsome Severus Snape, Mrs Lovett thought. Just think, she told herself, when we've had the show runnin' a few months an' the ratin's start pourin' in an' we 'ave enough gold to stash underneath our floorboards me an' Mr T will go sailin' in the Bermuda Triangle wif that sweet black and white bathin' ensemble I sewed for his up-an'-comin' birthday….

"Oooh would you look at that gorgeous glove shop on the corner Mr T ain't it pretty…an' flippin' doilies I've always wanted ter try one o' 'em pies on Fleet Street…."

"LOOK OUT WOMAN!"

Two daft teenagers steeped out in front of Mrs Lovett's on-coming coach.

Or rather, Mrs Lovett had accidently swerved onto the side-walk.

"EeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkKKK! FLAMIN' LOVE-STRUCK FOOLS LOOK WHERE YOU'RE GOIN'!!! DO YA WANNA BE ROADKILL???"

"It's a little late for that, Mrs Lovett," Sweeney said, a little more subdued now that he had seen two teenagers trampled under their coach.

They got out and inspected the wheels.

"A trifle messy, but there's no permanent damage," Mr Todd said about the wheels.

They scraped the two bodies out from under the coach with a spare shovel borrowed from the flower-shop on the corner. The red-haired boy, or what _looked_ like it had been a red boy, was easily got out. The frizzy-haired girl was a lot more difficult, on account of her hair being stuck to the wheel.

"Phew!" Mrs Lovett exclaimed when they'd finally finished cleaning up the mess. "For there ain't no good mechanics around on Sattadays."

"Filthy…._hic…._mudbloods…" came the commentary from the back-seat.

"Vile Death-eaters!" bellowed the boy from the backseat. "You'll hang for this Snape! Professor Dumbeldore will hear of this!"

Mr Todd and Mrs Lovett looked at each other. They clambered back into the coach.

"Wot's he on about then?"

"Damned if I know, Mrs Lovett."

"I thought you taped him up good –"

"I asked _you_ to do that."

"Wot you snivellin' for anyways?" Mrs Lovett snapped, turning around at last.

"They were my best friends," Harry Potter cried. "We were planning to graduate and become great actors on the London Stage and uncover our body parts and the innermost depths of our souls – all of that is dashed now! You killed them! You murdered Ron and Hermione!"

"Bellatrix….leather collar….chains…..purple lampshade…._hic…" _came the dream-time fantasies of the hook-nosed man beside Harry Potter.

*** * ***

**Meanwhile, in Advertising News:**

**Devastatingly Handsome Judge seeks woman to be his Bride. Or Plaything, depending on her fancy, social station, temperament, etc.**

**Woman must be:**

**Beautiful**

**Blonde (although Bird-nest haired, busty Brunettes _will_ be considered).**

**Single, Married, Over the Age of 12 or Widowed **

**Note: Widows _must _be under the age of 35, unless exceptionally good-looking**

**Not very Bright (Again, _Beautiful_ Geniuses are excepted).  
**

**Crackpots, ninnies, gold-diggers, old maids, spinsters, woman who sing and are fond of finches and linnet birds NEED NOT APPLY. **

**For all SERIOUS enquiries seek out Beadle Bamford on the corner of Fleet Street. A large Red Banner with a Heart will be displayed.**

**Am Willing to Pay for Services.**


	5. Sweeney Todd's Issues

**A/N: A long chap to make up for my absence! For those of you who are still waiting for that special someone to be tortured, I will try to shove in as many victims as possible in future chapters =D**

**~Sweeney Todd's Issues**~

The carriage came to a jerky stop just outside Sweeney Todd's Torture Program Studios.

Severus Snape ended up with his head in Harry Potter's lap, and Sweeney with his legs up in the air. When the barber got to his feet, there was a clean rip down the centre of his pants.

"You will never touch these reins as love as you live!" he warned the baker with a red face.

Mrs Lovett leapt down from the driver seat and ignored her partner. "There you are Mr Snape," she said coquettishly, taking the potions master by the hand and helping him down from the coach.

Severus Snape was not amused. "Which intellectually-challenged muggle-fool had the audacity to break my wand?"

"You mean that old twig I stepped on before?" Mrs Lovett confessed.

The wizard grasped her wrist tightly, and lowered his mouth by her ear. "I warn you, Bella, these are dangerous games you play. The Dark Lord will be watching us for any mishaps. I suggest you stop this nonsense muggle charade."

"Lor' you's as batty as Mr T you is!" was all the baker said in reply, staring at him with her enormous-baggily-seductive-death-eater-dark eyes.

Sweeney Todd growled in what might well be construed as a jealous tone. "The brat will not move himself, Mrs Lovett. And," he added, once they had dragged the boy-wizard between all three of them into the dark studio corridor, "these trouser-pants will not sew themselves."

"Hopeless, Mr T, hopeless!" Before the barber could answer in reply, the baker had swiftly de-trouser-fied Sweeney Todd in front of the highly-amused Severus Snape. "Lift one leg, an' now the other."

Sweeney did so only to escape from the humiliating situation.

"There!" the baker beamed, carrying off the trouser-pants triumphantly in her arms. "You just wait there Mr T – be back in a jiffy!"

"Well," said Severus, pressing his hands behind his back in head-master-like fashion, "_this_ is a trifle unpleasant."

"Mmerh," was all Sweeney said, shooting repeated aggressive glances down the corridor where Mrs Lovett had made off with his pants. He suddenly became aware of the stranger's intense stare, almost as intense as, well, his own. "Your voice, sir, is familiar to me. Have we met?"

"I think _not," _said the black-robed stranger, chuckling derisively at the notion of associating with de-trouser-fied men. How in Hogwarts Bellatrix had deemed _this_ muggle worthy of the work they had planned for the Dark Lord, he knew not…

"Back!" sang Mrs Lovett breathlessly, handing the barber his newly-sewn pants.

"They have pies and hearts sewn into the crotch," observed Snape delightfully, as if it was his duty to be as painfully annoying as possible.

"I will not wear these," Sweeney snarled.

"You've no choice," Mrs Lovett pointed out, as a barrage of sound, camera and make-up people came rushing down the corridor.

"Mr Todd," came one after the other, "you're late!"

"Where do we put Mr Potter?"

"In the torture chair," of course, interrupted Severus Snape.

"I don't like him," Sweeney hissed, taking Mrs Lovett aside. "He's taking over _my_ torture show."

"There, there love," the baker lectured only half-sympathetically. "Nobody likes a green-eyed monster."

With much careful precision, Harry Potter was strapped down to the spiky torture chair in the middle of the stage.

Such were the roars of joy and approval that rose up from the audience, Sweeney Todd felt a surge of pride. _He_ had created this – and not even Judge Turpin could destroy his happiness!

"Wot do we do now, Mr T?" Mrs Lovett asked her partner, turning to the audience in mock surprise. "Give 'im a blood bath? Rip out his intestines through 'is nostrils? Screw 'is head on backwards?"

Sweeney opened his mouth to answer, when the black-robed potions master swept menacingly across the stage and smiled at his captive.

"So, Mr _Potter," _spat the professor demonically, "you are now at last at the mercy of the Dark Lord. What have you to say for yourself?"

"You've put on weight, professor," said Potter defiantly, staring into the main camera and giving his head a toss so that the famous scar was revealed to the audience.

"Say that again, Potter," said Snape, reaching in his robe-pockets for his wand…

"It's alright dear," said Mrs Lovett protectively, handing him a far more useful device. "It's called a thumb-screw," she explained sensitively, letting her fingers trail none-too suggestively across his hand.

Sweeney did not miss the action. He scowled, standing silently as Snape and the baker went about torturing the boy-wizard with the thumb-screws. Mrs Lovett was playing a dangerous game…

"I swear Bellatrix Lestrange," squealed Harry Potter, as each of his fingers were painstakingly torn off, "I will avenge Ron and Hermione and Sirius Black's deaths you sick mad harpy!"

"Oh Mr Snape," laughed Mrs Lovett as she cast aside the third bloody fingernail onto the stage floor, "you certainly 'ave a knack for this business!"

"I try, Bella," he said devilishly, seizing her arm suddenly. "The Dark-lord will be well-pleased, I think. In fact, I can think of no death-eater I would rather be torturing our enemy with," he said in a low voice.

Before Mrs Lovett realised what fires she had inspired in the usually insipid professor, she found herself drawn into Snape's arms and kissed passionately.

"Mrs Lovett you treacherous strumpet!" Sweeney roared, yanking her apart from the potions-master. "You're needed back stage!"

The demon-barber clapped twice, and before Professor Snape could think of an adequate explanation, Sweeney's camera crew had arrived on stage and tied him to the rack conveniently set up beside Potter in the torture chair.

"Now," Sweeney grinned nastily, when Mrs Lovett had been dragged off stage, "you and I need to sort out our differences, Mr Snape."

*** * ***

_**Backstage…**_

"Please," said the girl desperately. "You've got to help me. There's nothing else I can think of that will take the pain away. How could Edward leave me? He promised me! He promised to protect me!"

"That's all very well," said the baker dryly, taking a chewed pencil out of her bird-nest hair, "but we've got quite a line up as it is. See that line," she pointed down the eastern corridor where a long-line of odd, desperate people were lined up. "That's the voluntary torture line."

"Please," Bella begged, "You of all people should know what's like to be left on the shelf by the one you love! You're old, sad and no longer even remotely attractive."

"Actually, I've changed me mind. Right this way love," Mrs Lovett said sadistically, leading her right to the stage. "Just up there, go on girly. Don't be scared neither," she whispered delightfully, "Mr T is a giant teddy. Be sure to ask him about his wife." She winked, and sent the morose girl on her way.

"Where's Bella!" A dark, tanned teenage boy burst out of the emergency exit staircase and came to a breathless stop before the baker. "Bella, have you seen her?"

"Am I to spec-u-late that you is one of her fan-club?"

"Jacob Black. Bella's pseudo-native-american werewolf protector. I need to find Bella," he repeated seriously, scanning the corridors for sign of the brunette.

"Up there," Mrs Lovett smirked, pointing him in the right direction. "Be sure to mention Mr T's wife!" she called after him.

*** * ***

At long last, the mad proceedings were over for the day.

The first thing Mrs Lovett did was go straight to her dressing room and down two cups of coffee filled with half a cup of gin each. Sweet Merciful Satan she needed it! That Snape wosn't a bad kisser, mind, but she'd have much rather tried it with the none-too-reluctant barber. Per'aps she could sneak a peck when they were busy polishin' swords and maces after the show? "Speaking o' Mr T," she sighed out loud.

Now that Mr T was well out of sight, she felt able to sneak a generous bite of that roast turkey saved from yesterday night. She worked a practiced rhythm, slicing the turkey and bouncing from side to side, taking greedy mouthfuls of the meat as she worked. In between the turkey slicing and stuffing, the baker took helpful swigs of coffee-and-gin to wash away the dry flavour of day-old turkey.

Unbeknownst to Mrs Lovett, her favourite barber happened to be watching the entire performance from the open doorway of her dressing room.

"That dress is far too low," said Sweeney Todd at last.

"Mr T!" she spluttered, covering her mouth to prevent the morsels of turkey from sliding down her chin. "Wot you doin' 'ere?" she continued, mouth still full of turkey.

"I repeat, Mrs Lovett: the dress is far too low."

The baker stuck a hand on her hip, but made no attempt to pull it up. The impertinence of the man! She leant over maliciously so that her pale chest was on full display. "Per'aps you shouldn't look!" she spat defensively, covering her mouth with her hand straight after. Of all the times her body decided to burp!

"By the way," he continued, eyes blazing, "Mr Snape will no longer be joining us for any further torture programs. I've had his _head_ shipped off to the Americas."

Mrs Lovett gasped. "You didn't!"

"I did," smirked Sweeney, "and if you talk to any more strange men, my pet, I cannot be held responsible for my actions…"

"Love," Mrs Lovett said timidly, sidling alongside him, "you know you is the only man in my 'eart. Don't you think per'aps you over-reacted slightly?"

"What a thing to suggest!" stormed, Sweeney Todd ominously, striding aggressively around the room. "Did I over-react, Mrs Lovett, when the Judge forced himself on my wife, shipped me off to Australia and stole my only child from me? Did I over-react when I returned and found my wife was dead, and that the Judge then intended to marry my only flesh-and-blood? I think not!"

"Mr Snape done you no harm. He wos on our side!"

"Know this my pet: there are no good men, and there is only one side: Sweeney Todd's!"

Somehow his darkly raised eyebrows, snarling grimace and aggressive swagger did not seem to intimidate Mrs Lovett.

"Love," she said insistently, grabbing his hand and sitting him down in the spinning chair. "I think you should see this."

The barber watched as she reached down into her heaving bosom…and produced a crumpled sheet of paper.

"_TAA. _What is that?" Sweeney cringed, as she smoothed the paper down and placed it in the middle of his lap.

"Torture Addicts Anonymous," said Mrs Lovett in a rush. She scrunched the fabric of her dress together as she spoke. "I thought it might 'elp your anger problems an' all."

"What anger problems?" said Sweeney dangerously, getting to his feet.

The baker rose steadily to her feet, reaching for his shoulders with her gloved hands. "Mr T, is that a vein throbbin' in your 'ead?" She got on tip-toe to inspect the green pulsing monster on his forehead.

"What of it?" Sweeney snapped, swatting her hands away as if she were an insect.

"Love," she answered sagaciously, "you may run from yer problems, but ya can't 'ide."

"You read that off the pamphlet," Sweeney shot back accusingly as he watched her retreating form disappear out the door.

*** * ***

Thankfully for Mrs Lovett, she happened to be walking down the back-studio corridor none-too-soon.

A young, blonde girl in a beautiful black-and-white striped gown was moving elegantly towards her.

"Excuse me," she called prettily, curtseying briefly before the baker, "can you tell me the whereabouts of a Mr Ichabod Crane? I seem to have misplaced my fiancé…"

Mrs Lovett studied the girl critically. "Wot's 'e look like then?"

"Very handsome," said the girl with a blush. "Suave, sophisticated, charming, well-read, scientific. A detective, no-less."

For a minute, Mrs Lovett had been worried that this Lucy-clone had been after her Mr T. You never knew what lengths them fan-girls would go too to snag themselves a fine man such as wot Mr T wos… "Who wants to know?" she sneered suspiciously.

"Katrina Van Tassel," said the girl demurely, but there was something witch-like in the lady's eyes that Mrs Lovett wasn't buying.

Suddenly, a familiar tortured voice echoed down the corridor. "Lucy!"

Both women turned. It was Sweeney Todd, his head poking out the dressing room door. "My wife!"

"Ichabod?" the young woman knitted her brows. Her fiancé was much changed! "What has happened to you?" She ran the length of the corridor, and caught him in a frantic embrace.

"No," Mrs Lovett gasped, clasping the laces of her corset. "Can't – breathe!" she wheezed. But Mr T wasn't watching. He was playing with the curls on that stupid girl's head, smiling and whispering sweet-flaming-nothings in her flaming-ears! How could it be? She'd already bumped off the beggar woman, an' Johanna was off married to that daft-as-marbles sailor boy. Wot wos goin' on in London of late? A plague of blonde-locusts chasing after poor-tortured-throat-slicing-widowed-barber men?

The excitement proved too much. Without further a do, Mrs Nellie Lovett fell down in a dead faint.

*** * ***

**Just take the bleedin' test love an' put us all out o' our misery!**

**I don't like it Mrs Lovett. It stinks of Turpin. _  
**

**Please Mr T. For me? =) I'll buy them sun-dried tomatoes you likes. The one's out o' the bottle?**

**Infernal woman. -_-**

"_Is Torture Addicts Anonymous for you?"_

_Answer Yes or No to the following questions._

_1. Have you ever decided to stop torturing for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?_ **….I never stop.**

_2. Do you wish people would mind their own business about your torturing-- stop telling you what to do? In TAA we do not tell anyone to do anything. We just talk about our own torture experiences, the trouble we got into, and how we stopped. We will be glad to help you, if you want us to. _ **Yes. I'm forever telling Mrs Lovett...but I certainly don't need _your_ help.**

_3. Have you ever switched from one kind of torture method to another in the hope that this would keep you from being obsessed with torture?_ **No. I am quite comfortable with my razors, thank you.  
**

_4. Have you had to have an eye-opener upon awakening during the past year? Do you need torture to get started, or to stop shaking?_ **I don't sleep. Mrs Lovett will tell you.  
**

_5. Do you envy people who can torture without getting into trouble? At one time or another, most of us have wondered why we were not like most people.._. **O_O. Judge Turpin hangs men daily, and robs women from good men on a whim…**

_6. Have you had problems connected with torture during the past year? Be honest! Doctors say that if you have a problem with revenge and keep on torturing, it will get worse -- never better. Eventually, you will die, or end up in an institution for the rest of your life. The only hope is to stop torturing_! **I am not dead, and I remain institution free – ha Judge Turpin!**

_7. Has your torturing caused trouble at home? Before we came into TAA, most of us said that it was the people or problems at home that made us torture. We could not see that our torturing just made everything worse. It never solved problems anywhere or anytime_. **What brain-addled fools thought of this, Mrs Lovett? Clearly they have never held a razor up and see how it smiles in the light…**

_8. Do you tell yourself you can stop torturing any time you want to? _**Of course. It is a matter of pure will. I simply don't choose to…**

_10. Have you missed days of work or school because of torture? Many of us admit now that we "called in sick" lots of times when the truth was that we were out torturing_. **No. Fortunately my line of work prevents such problems.**

_11. Do you have "blackouts"? A "blackout" is when we have been torturing hours or days which we cannot remember. When we came to TAA, we found out that this is a pretty sure sign of addictive torturing._** Sometimes. I don't remember. Ask Mrs Lovett.**

_12. Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not torture? Many of us started to torture because torturing made life seem better, at least for a while. By the time we got into TAA, we felt trapped. We were torturing to live and living to torture. We were sick and tired of being sick and tired._ **I am not sick and tired of torturing. It helps me to breathe. What should I do instead? Go and knit mittens with Mrs Lovett by the fire? Ha!**

*** * *  
**


	6. Pirates and Constables

**A/N: A few more characters from Johnny Depp's movies worm their way into this chap. Kudos to those who can guess them all. =D**

"Madam! Wake up, good woman!"

"I'm no one's good woman," mumbled Mrs Lovett. She woke up to find the floor spinning around her and a headache as foul as one of her infamous meat pies – the non-human ones, that is.

"Are you hurt?"

My, wot an odd question! Shouldn't he be belting her over the head or threatening her with a meat cleaver? The man standing over her had his hand on her shoulder, and the other one extended to grasp waist. He lifted her carefully to her feet, and it was only when she'd brushed the hair out of her eyes and blinked several times that she realised the man wasn't Sweeney.

"Where's Mr T?"

"I might ask you where my fiancé has fled to. I am Constable..."

"I know who you is." How could she not have recognised him? The firm forehead, sharp jaw and puckered cheeks. The same dark eyes and frown. Only this gent didn't frown quite so much as Sweeney. And he wasn't quite as pale. Nor as dirty. Nor as haunted. An' he didn't have quite as dark messy hair nor the tortured silver streak she fantasised curling around her fingers.

He looked surprised. The woman's appearance was a shock, to say the least. He'd learnt enough back in the Hollow to know not to judge people (especially women) by their appearance. However, this woman was all too clearly a witch. He began to tremble. Did he still have Katrina's book of good luck charms with him? "I do not see how we could have met before."

"Don't be a fool." She slapped him heartily on the back. "'Course we 'aven't met. Only you is the spittin' image of my Mr Todd. You 'as got to be cousins – at the very relations of some sort." The woman was blushing all over. "I 'ave a confession ter make, sir. If I wasn't besotted with Mr T, an' you wasn't engaged…why…_I could eat you up._"

"Ichabod Crane," gulped Ichabod under the woman's intense gaze. "If you please, good woman, take me to Katrina."

Mrs Lovett's eyes narrowed. "You mean that harlot cannodlin' this very moment with my dearest barber? Right this way sir."

Any sweetness had completely vanished, and poor Ichabod found himself dragged down the hallway to a room with a giant gold star on it that read "Mr Sweeney Todd: part-time actor, full-time psychopath."

"Sorry about the sign," Mrs Lovett said, and the woman began to scrub at the vandalism beneath Sweeney Todd's name. "Someone's been tryin' ter ruin his reputation with nasty words."

Ichabod was thankful he'd kept the revolver from his last adventurers close by in his pocket. "And is it true?"

"Wot?"

"The bit about the psychopath." His heart pounded, and poor Ichabod hoped Katrina knew how to look after herself adequately…

The witch woman looked at him very hard, and didn't answer. Instead, she kicked open the door, and threw the cloth on the ground.

"You killed it!" There was Katrina, blonde, fair Katrina, screeching at the top of her lungs and pointing to a tiny dead object on the floor.

"I don't remember killing it…" And there was Sweeney Todd, also staring at the tiny dead object and looking very dazed. "You aren't Lucy," he said after a long pause.

"Of course I'm not Lucy," she said wilfully, and took several steps backward from the dead bird.

"I didn't mean it," he said sadly, prodding the bird with a grubby finger. "It slipped in my hand. I like birds. Lucy liked birds."

"Do you kill everything you love?"

"Most of the time," Mrs Lovett interjected casually, getting the broom and duster from behind the door. She swept the bird up quickly and dumped it in the trash. "I'm training him to focus his anger positively. We're gearin' up for a big episode next week." The baker whispered in Katrina's ear. "Between you an' me, the Judge an' the Beadle is gonna get it big time. Then 'opefully he'll be cured o' his cravings."

"Katrina!" At this point Ichabod decided it was the right time to interrupt. Now that his beloved was a safe enough distance away from the brooding mad man...

"Ichabod! My love!" She fell dramatically into his arms and clung to his neck. "Take me away from that monster."

"Of course," he said weakly, patting the back of her head. They took slow, measured steps away from the two pale-faced maniacs.

"Is he a constable, Mrs Lovett?" said Sweeney instinctively.

"He mighta mentioned somethin' about bein' one."

"I don't like the police." He took a step toward Ichabod. His hand lifted something shiny in the air, and before he could deliver the fatal blow, the detective gave a piercing shriek and fainted against Katrina.

"Prepare the torture chamber, Eleanor," Sweeney ordered, stooping to polish his razors for yet the fifth-dozenth time.

"There ain't any," his accomplice snapped, and before she could give him a lecture on strangling green finches and attempting to murder potentially powerful detectives and their fiancés, another loud screech erupted down the studio corridor. "Wot now?"

*** * ***

"Oh lord. Smite me dumb, it's Lisa Marie."

"Lisa who?"

"Me ex-boyfriend's ex-lover. Also me old roommate."

"I fail to follow you, my pet."

Mrs Lovett squeezed his hand and delivered him a bug-eyed face. "Mrs Mooney is 'er other name."

"You mean the vile woman who likes to drug men in her spare time?"

"Yes the very same. An' now she's got Pirelli."

"No small loss there."

And it was true – both statements, that is.

While Mr Todd and Mrs Lovett had spent the last few months building their torture empire, Mrs Mooney had sought out the disgraced and disgruntled Signor Pirelli sleeping in garbage dumps by day and snorting his brains out in opium dens by night. It was only a matter of time before both of them realised they each had bones to chew. Fortunately, Mrs Mooney had given up her habit of chewing cat bones in front of the TV and throwing them out the window at unsuspecting bystanders…

"It's you!" Mrs Lovett gasped.

"That's right," said Mrs Mooney smugly, who found it rather hard to smile after her previous three face-lifts. "I've sued our ex-boyfriend for every penny he's worth an' now I've got enough of a fortune to sue you an' that fool of a barber for every penny you're worth."

"We don't own any pennies," said Sweeney bluntly. "We only have pounds."

"Help!" Back on stage, the torture victims were getting restless. There were rather a lot of them…

"If you'll excuse me Mooney, Pirelli," Mrs Lovett said with a curtsey, "we'll 'ave to finish this conversation after the show. Mr T's supposed ter torture you, an' we can't disappoint our audience. Mr T?"

"With pleasure, my dove." Sweeney was a strong man, but not that strong. He needed the entire studio crew to tie down the furious Mrs Mooney and Pirelli.

"Dear," Nellie said as she counted the row of victims tied up along the stage. "Do you think there's too many of them? I mean, we don't wanna overdo it."

Sweeney answered her with a wicked glint. "You can never have too much torture, my dear."

"Very well then. I'll do a head-count, will I? Except that Mr Snape, as he's missin' his head an' all. One, Mr Potter. Two an Edward Cullen. Three a Bella Swan. Bit of a poxy name, if you ask me, but then there's no tellin' for taste –"

"Mrs Lovett!"

"Three, Jacob Black. Four Mrs Lisa-Marie Gold-Digger Mooney. Five Mr Pole-Up-His-Arse Pirelli, Six Perverted Beadle Bamford, Seven Judge Lurkin' Turpin."

"I don't believe those are their real names," said Sweeney darkly, who had a penchant for having everything _just-so._

"I know love but it sounds so much more truthful when you say wot they truly is. Hallo, who's this then? Eight –"

"Allow me to introduce meself, dear, fortunate lady *hic*. Me name's Cap'in Jack Sparrow, and it's my great, no *hic* _grand_ pleasure to be of service to such a beauteously decorated woman such as yourself *hic* -"

A tanned man sporting dreadlocks, a red bandana, loose pants, a semi-bare chest and dark smoky eyes was sprawled across the last wicker chair. He was not tied up, and was eyeing the baker rather lasciviously.

"Tie him up!" The barber said savagely, who didn't like pirates at all, especially ones whose eyes strayed too far below Mrs Lovett's neck.

"Now Mr T he's just being polite. It's not every day we meet a pirate –"

"No. I _insist_," said the pirate deliciously. "I've searched the seas for this crummy port, and I've heard it said, that Mrs Lovett's Pie shop is _quite_ the paradise, as far as pies are said to go."

"If you want a pie that badly sir,"

The pirate leaned closer, and stank of gin and rum and every other spirit combined known to man. "I insist._ Savvy_, my little pie?"

Mrs Lovett coloured. "Very well." She spent much longer tying up the Captain's ropes than any other of the victims. "Now, Mr T, you wait there while I pass them me first round o' pies."

None of the victims knew which one of Mrs Lovett's pies were made of meat, or human meat. That was the beauty of it, of course, to watch each of them squirm delightfully in their seats while they stuffed themselves disgustedly on the pastry and brown oozing gunk. Next would come Sweeney's razors, but he was a patient man.

Unfortunately, the torturing ended before it began.

Sweeney Todd put down his razor, as if he were trying to remember where he was.

Then he proceeded to sit on the spare chair in the middle of the stage, and drive an imaginary car in reverse.

"Pet," Mrs Lovett approached. "That's not a real steerin' wheel you're holdin'."

"Turn around," he said firmly to himself, staring straight ahead. "Turn around. Turn around._ Right now._"

"Are you alright love?" She helped the barber to his feet and kicked the chair away. Maybe it was possessed or somethin'.

"The strangest feelin' has come over me, Mrs Lovett," began Sweeney Todd.

"I hope you're not planning to sing," said the Beadle nastily. "Otherwise," *cough*, "I might need," *cough*, "a rather large dose," *cough* -

"Might I remind you, Bamford," said Judge Turpin sternly from his torture seat, "that this is a_ family _program, and it would not be _fitting_ for you to list your drug addictions on this stage."

Mrs Lovett cocked her head. "Later, love, later," she cautioned Sweeney. "We'll clobber 'em later. Now about this funny business you're feelin". Maybe it's a past life your rememberin'?"

"I don't have a past life," Sweeney said sourly. "My name is Sweeney Todd, and –"

"Yes dear, Benjamin Barker is dead. I is well acquainted with your 'istory."

"Don't contradict me, Eleanor."

"You don't seem to mind when we's in bed together –"

The barber's faced turned purple. "I forbid you to discuss us on national television," he hissed.

"Too late. Who says you's ter judge when an' wot I may discuss –"

"I told you never to mention that _word_ in my presence –"

"Judge 'appens ter be a very common word Mr T. Don't you start givin' me the stare, or it'll be sheeps eyes for dinner an' I won't let your trim me hair tonight…"

They might have gone on arguing this way all night, if the sound crew hadn't had the common sense to turn the theme music up several notches.

"Who's that scrumptious Elizabeth look-alike," said Jack Sparrow in between mouthfuls of pie. "Wish there was more of this muck. Enough to make a man desert the seas…"

"I do not know this Elizabeth is you speak of," said Pirelli as he spat out his regurgitated pie, "but I do not like her. She has shifty eyes, so a to speak."

"Wot is the flamin' matter with you two," said Mrs Lovett eventually. She was just about to turn around and force-feed them the rest of her meat pies, when her eyes caught sight of yet another blonde woman coming down the stairs.

"John," said the woman, running down the steps in between the audience. "John, I didn't mean it!"

Mrs Lovett narrowed her eyes as the strangely dressed woman ran between her and Sweeney Todd. Her accent was unusual, and she wore man-breeches. "You're not Lucy," she said rudely, prodding the woman in her ample chest. "So nick off."

Sweeney frowned, as if trying to place her. "Of course she isn't Lucy. Her name is _Amy_."

"Mr T!" Mrs Lovett gasped. "We're together only three months, an' already you cheated on me?"

*** * ***

Next chapter is probably going to be the last instalment. Finally, Judge Turpin and Beadle-deadle will kick the bucket =D

**And now the latest in advertisements, brought to you by Mrs Eleanor Lovett:**

**10 Ways to Win the Man of Your Dreams (Even if He's Widowed, Brain-dead, or Slightly Reluctant)**

**1. Put a little opium in his oatmeal. If it doesn't brighten up his mood, at least he'll be too sluggish to move when you pluck up the courage to make a move.**

**2. Linger suggestively around the back of his neck. Fondle the back of his back/hair/waist. If he doesn't get your drift, sniff his hair directly underneath his ear.**

**3. Sing loudly, and make sure you're ready to greet him nice an' cheery. No one likes a grumpy ginny in the morning. It don't matter if you can't sing anyway, since he never pays you no mind ordinary times: the louder, the better.**

**4. Do wotever he says, at all times. If this means skinning dead freshly shaved men up to your elbows in blood, believe me, it's worth it when he gives you one of 'is special grateful half-mournful little smiles.**

**5. Ask him about his dearly departed. Seem interested, but not **_**too**_** interested. The focus should still be on you an' 'is current relationship. Don't let 'im wallow too much in his sorrows. Wot's past is past.**

**6. Wear somethin' low cut and figure-huggin'. He may look like a ghost, but a man's still a man, ain't he?**

**7. Give 'im drink, an' lots of it. Start small by offerin' a night-cap after a long day's work, an' then a freshener for mornin's, until by the month's end you've got 'im completely addicted that he'll do wotever you say if only for a swig o' gin.**

**8. Adopt a street urchin. He may drink an' eat you outta house an' home, but it's your best chance at showin' the man you covet you is serious about takin' care of another livin' creature, even if it's only the boy.**

**9. Did I mention poisonin' his oatmeal ever so slightly? Oh dearie me. Run out o' ideas already, an' Mr T still hasn't…**

**10. Ah! I 'ave it! If you is really desperate, an' none of them ideas worked, try this for size: Go out at night (it's more dramatic at night but daytime will still work) under the pretence you're outta flour an' gots to buy more. Make sure you're away at least an hour, an when you get back smear your face with dirt, dishevel your hair an' tear your skirt a little. Be sure to sniff an' onion before you re-enter, if you can't fake tears on the spot. Now when you see your dearly beloved, pretend you've 'ad a dreadful encounter with a man of the law, preferably a Judge. If I've learnt anythin' at all in the past few months, it's that men get all wild an' furious when you tell 'em you've 'ad a run in with a Judge...**

*** * ***


	7. The Torture Machine

**A/N: Finally complete! Thanks to everyone who reviewed =)**

**~The Torture Machine~**

Barber and baker glared at each other for several minutes without blinking.

"We're on the air," the camera crew of Sweeney Todd's Torture Program reminded them.

"Mrs Lovett," Sweeney said eventually, "I did _not_ cheat on you. We aren't even married."

"Actually love, you're wrong about the second part. If you didn't cheat, _who_ is Amy?"

"I don't remember being married." His left eye twitched.

"That's coz you was sleepwalkin' when the priest performed the ceremony." She pointed to the ring on her finger. "I told you to buy it on sale, an' you did."

"What _else _did you do to me while I was asleep?"

"Well I can't quite recall. But by Mrs Mooney's cat-pies I would certainly never cheat on you with a woman called Amy, would I?"

"You didn't answer my question." Sweeney's skin drained itself of the very little colour it possessed. "Besides, I don't know who she is. I just know her name."

"Well," Mrs Lovett sniffed, still clearly hurt, "it don't matter anyway. You can do wot you like after the show. But right now we 'as some people ter torture. Security! Escort this woman out, if you please!"

Security did not move. They were too terrified of Sweeney's murderous expression to even consider moving.

"John, please!" The woman's whiny voice reminded Mrs Lovett of the beggar woman/Lucy.

"Ooh, I like that shiny ring," said Jack Sparrow distractedly, his eyes drawing in on Amy's enormous wedding ring. He stumbled down the stairs with his fingers flicking the air and his feet dancing everywhere. "Gold, ain't it? At last, somethin' good is comin' way, asides the rum, that is."

"I saw it also," Pirelli insisted, dragging himself in the torture chair toward the stairs. "Filthy pirate will only spend it on rum, give it to Pirelli!"

"John," pleaded the terrified Amy, staring up at Sweeney Todd and taking more than a few generous steps backward, "_rescue _me from this villainous men!"

"Do I look like John?" asked Sweeney half-seriously, taking out his razor and holding it up to the light.

The woman nodded. "If you take the Halloween mask off, you will."

"Oh that's it!" Mrs Lovett roared, getting the feather duster from under the stage. "Don't you know Mr T's a chiselled morbid god, so don't you dare be insultin' his appearance, you Lucy-doll re-make!" The baker was true to her word, and ran after the puzzled blonde woman with the said duster held high like a knight's sword, followed closely by Jack Sparrow.

In the process of running down the stairs, she toppled into Pirelli's chair, which caused the barber to topple chair-first down the stairs. He came to a thud on the floor by the audience. The fall, while not enough to sustain serious injury, was enough to break the chair. Pirelli leapt to his feet, and had to hop with the binds around his feet after the gold ring.

"Funny," said Jack as pirate and I-talian ran, or rather hopped, neck and neck, "I never dreamed I'd find meself competing for treasure with a giant curly moustached puppet. Seems like hoppin' gives you an advantage, ay?" Jack also took to hopping on one leg, and found that it did indeed increase running speed.

"Funny," said Sweeney Todd, as he turned his attention back to the actual torture at hand, "I never in my wildest dreams imagined the pleasure of torturing several people at once. And Beadle, Judge Turpin," he added with a malicious grin, "you are going to get it."

Harry Potter, Edward Cullen, Bella Swan, Mrs Lisa-Marie Mooney, Beadle Bamford and Judge Turpin all looked equally terrified.

Sweeney Todd had devised a special simultaneous torture device that combined the elegance of Victorian torture weaponry with the efficiency of modern torture.

"It's a torture machine!" Judge Turpin gasped, staring at what appeared to be a giant vending machine with various buttons that allowed the operator to select their method of torture, measure the length of the torture and select various strengths of intensity.

"I prefer to see at as a torture microwave," Sweeney said sadistically, "because by the time I am through with you, Judge Turpin, you will be cooked."

"Very humorous, barber, but I hardly think you will get awa –"

In the time that it took Judge Turpin to utter that sentence, he was dead.

Sweeney Todd had selected from the menu the option of "immurement". By immurement, Sweeney meant "death by having a giant wax skin melted over Judge Turpin's body until the man suffocated to death inside his own likeness."

"It's neat, quick, an' there's no blood neither," Mrs Lovett observed, coming up the set of stairs with the ring ripped from Amy's ring finger.

_"Very,"_ Sweeney said with a small satisfied smile, turning his attention to the other torture victims.

"You're just like Voldemort!" Harry Potter bellowed, tears springing from his eyes.

"Is that a vodka?" Mrs Lovett said with a confused look on her face.

"Never mind that," spat Pirelli, hopping back up the stairs with Sparrow in tow. "Give us the ring back, you tasteless pie-selling strumpet!"

"Mr Todd," wheedled the Beadle, "I'll give you me entire coke collection, an' the list of all me drug contacts, if you'll but consider sparin' me life. You won't regret it!"

_"Silence."_ The barber pressed a few buttons on the machine, and after a fascinating period of ten minutes, in which the Beadle found himself being puffed up with a helium plug to a hippopotamus shape, the Judge's faithful servant exploded into a dozen tiny balloon pieces.

"Cor, wot a sight!" Mrs Lovett breathed, jumping away from the splatters of blood and half digested food.

"What happened to Amy?" Sweeney remembered, turning from the machine.

"I put her in quarantine," Mrs Lovett explained. "I checked 'er background and found 'er jeep parked in the carpark. She's got a lot of corn cobs stashed away in the boot, Mr T, an' I hardly think that's normal…bleedin' hell wot are they up to?"

The criminal couple turned to the row of torture victims, and saw that three of them were acting in an extremely peculiar manner.

"Bohemians!" seethed Bamford distastefully.

"Lord Voldemort worshippers!" yelled Harry.

"Gypsies," hissed Signor Pirelli.

"Land-lubbers," said Jack Sparrow with a painful wince.

It appeared Jacob, Bella and Edward were attempting to calm their invisible auras with a healing-meditation session and a cluster of daisy chains. All three held hands, daises draped around their heads and chests and wrists. Bella closed her eyes and whispered a low and meaningful chant that is too low and meaningful to be repeated here.

"They're ruining my torture program!" said Sweeney angrily.

Mrs Lovett agreed. "Give 'em the slit, Mr T, you know you wanna. Can't stand happy peasant farmer folk songs meself."

"That's impossible!" blurted Harry Potter. "Every one knows sparkling vampires and hair-straightened werewolves have rock hard skin and abdominal muscles that cannot be pierced by ordinary weaponry!"

"Oh dear," said Mrs Lovett, eyeing Edward and Jacob's smug expressions. "That _is _a problem."

"No it isn't," said Sweeney even more smugly, reaching up to pull a lever that was not immediately obvious on the torture machine unless you knew it inside out. It was in fact the lever that dropped a trapdoor beneath the chairs of all the remaining torture victims. When pulled down a second time, the lever released a special mechanism that instantly detonated barrels of gunpowder underneath the stage. "Problem solved," grinned Sweeney Todd.

"Yes, well, one of them dearie," said Mrs Lovett blank-faced. "Now you've set the premises afire, wot do you intend to do about that?"

"Nothing," said Sweeney assuredly, swinger his razors back into his vest pockets like guns to their holsters. "I was getting a trifle bored, my pet, to tell the truth."

The barber leapt down from the burning stage, and gave the baker a helping hand.

Jack Sparrow also leapt instinctively off the exploding stage, as he had dealt a lot with exploding and sinking ships.

Pirelli managed the jump because he too was used to being attacked by angry mobs demanding their money back from failed elixirs.

"Bored by torture," Mrs Lovett mused, the words sounding exactly like music to her ears. "I wonder wot Mr T will do without it?"

"I don't know," Sweeney said honestly, putting an arm round his partner's shoulder as they walked out of the burning studio that was once Sweeney Todd's Torture Program. "What would you like to do, my pet?"

"Well, I've always fancied openin' up a wax museum," she began, twirling the stolen ring around her finger. "By the sea, o' course."

*** * *  
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_The End._


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